An Offering for the Dead (2 page)

I was saying that had I encountered anyone, I would have killed him on the spot. That goes without saying. Incidentally, it would have been a merciful deed; no one could have endured even a moment of this state of total freedom without going mad. Can a madman still be called human? However, I am not claiming that I would have acted out of mercy. Indeed, as soon as I had noticed him, I would have hidden behind a corbeling and then pounced on him.

If it had been a human being! It could also have been merely a hallucination, and I had to convince myself of that as fast as possible. And he — I mean if he had been a human being, then he could only have been one like me. And this person might have been swifter and stronger than I. In any case, he would have made the very same effort to get rid of me on the spot. As it was, there could be no one else. That would have meant that the end had not yet come, and each of us would have been obligated to bring about the end no matter what.

One is seized with immeasurable woe. We must avoid thinking about it. Ever since I became aware of myself, I have been seeking this other And he me. In order to speak to him as I now speak. To give each other names in which all the conflict in the world could be forgotten forever. Where was he? For he was here. His image
was
inside me, therefore his being had to be somewhere outside me. And I frequently spoke his name. And I sometimes heard the name he gave me. Did we pass one another? Were we blind and hardened by the futilities of the days that hatefully surrounded us? And now, with these hands, which wanted to do good to one another, we would have strangled each other, because it was too late.

We must avoid talking about it. I have done so only because I no longer have a name that says anything about me, and because nothing gives me a name that compels me to imagine anything. But you are to know what I am.

However, I did not meet that other. I was all alone and I walked through the large, empty city. I do not know how long or what gave me the strength. I do not believe I could do it a second time. Have I not said: There are things that are more easily done than thought. Thus I came to the center of the city and to large squares that were surrounded by gigantic buildings. Earlier, the country had been governed from here. One can walk past them and forget them; there is nothing real to be found in them except for the anxious efforts that people have always made to capture all reality in laws. They do not say: If you are distressed, come to me! They say: You are not to feel distressed! From proud galleries, they proclaimed to the populace what it wanted to hear: that everything was in order. And next door there was a theater, where people actually watched performances of their destiny such as they never dared to live it. All this is very bizarre.

Finally, I stepped into a home. It was a not very large one-
family house, which stood in a garden. I entered the house because it happened to be in my way. Or because the garden gate and the front door were open. Or also only because I was fed up with running around and it was time to put an end to it. One should not assume that there is more to it. In hindsight, of course, it would seem as if this house had been my goal and had been expecting me. But that is not true. I had no goal. I could just as easily have entered any of the thousand other homes; after all, everything was mine, and I do not know what I would have encountered there.

You see, this house was awaiting guests, although not me. I made a point of wiping my shoes on the mat in order to avoid dirtying the polished floors. But I would have left no traces anyhow. I walked down a hallway, various doors stood ajar, but I went past them without peering inside. I headed straight for the kitchen, which was located in the back of the house. I have no idea why I did that; even now, it makes no sense. Perhaps I felt that I was not appropriately dressed to enter the front rooms as a visitor. But all that is unimportant.

Pots stood on the stove. They looked as if they had only just been cooking something. Naturally, no fire was burning. I raised a lid, it was not hot. Yet I did not have the impression that the food had cooled off. No, the fat had not coagulated. I did not notice whether steam was emerging from the pots. Nor did I try any of the food. Most likely nothing would have had a taste. They must have been about to carry the food to the table. The meal could begin. Everything was clean and unspoiled. After all, there were no flies.

And that was good. For a fly would have probably been unendurable. Imagine that the persons with whom you always lived together and most closely have suddenly left you.

And now you are standing in what used to be the household kitchen. And all the indifferent objects that were heedlessly employed day in, day out, and that were so modest as not to intrude, even though they were somehow necessary — should not they too have shared our destiny? A lid no longer quite fits a pot because it is twisted, or the front of a spoon is worn smooth from so much stirring. But we no longer notice such things, we are used to them; after all, these minor defects developed through our living together — yes, and all these objects are still here, and you do not know why. A fly only has to buzz, and you are done for.

Eventually, I did go to the front of the house after all, looking for the dining room. It was next to the front door. The table was set for twelve people, I instantly counted. It looked very festive: the white tablecloth, the settings, crystal decanters of wine, and silver candelabras. There may have been flowers too, I cannot picture it otherwise. I gazed at everything, I even touched a few objects. I believe that I actually shifted and rearranged one thing or another. To test it, I sat down at the table. There was a seat at the narrow end, opposite the open glass doors, which led to a terrace. Another setting was at my right. No one came to serve me, no invisible hands placed food in front of me. Nor, incidentally, did I expect it. Then I stood up again and gingerly pushed the chair back to the table. A painting hanging on the wall had caught my eye. A bleak landscape with water. Or, more precisely: no landscape, but something that had been or was yet to become a landscape. The colors reminded me of the pearls. That is very bizarre. The person who had painted the picture and those who had hung it in their room in order to view it constantly must have known a great deal more than their daily existence seemed to prove. Where was the defect?

The next room had books, two walls full. These people must have been well-read. A small piano stood there, it was open, and a score was on the music desk. Why should I describe all this? It was like everywhere else, a bit more tasteful perhaps; but that was not it. Something was missing; above all, it was not what I was looking for. But just what
was
I looking for? I wandered, through the streets of the city and through these rooms. What had prompted me to return to the city in the first place? I certainly could not assume that it still existed. And I had even less reason to think that it would release me again, and that I would now be standing in the rain on this high, treeless plateau, amid nameless, exhausted sleepers — whom one, likewise nameless, does not dare call human beings — in order to talk about it. For none of this happened to supply me with an interesting story to tell. But somebody has to speak about it. It could be that something unexpectedly pops up among the words, something that should not be forgotten; and once it is articulated, it begins to live. Sometimes it seems to me — but perhaps I am wrong, and it need not be taken all too seriously — that I returned to the city because of those colors. I mean the colors of the pearls and of the painting.

I stood at the mirror for a long time. Or did I sit in front of it? Here, my story gets confused because I was very tired. Ask me if you want any details. Being a man, I do not notice everything. It may be that I overlook precisely the most important things.

The mirror was like a narrow gate, I could have passed through it comfortably.

Yes, it was a woman's room. One must bear in mind that the rooms and the objects no longer gave off any kind of
smell. That was why I did not perceive it right away. But all sorts of objects that should have made me aware of it must have been lying about. Gloves or stockings or a handkerchief. I now remember that some face powder was strewn on the glass shelf of one of the small cabinets next to the mirror. I traced a sinuous line in the powder with my finger, but since it looked like an
S,
I quickly blew it away; otherwise, some unknown person whose name happened to start with that letter might think that somebody was calling him and trying to cast a spell on him. I should probably have looked for a comb; there must have been one lying there. But who thinks of such a thing? I could then say whether the woman who lived in that room was young or old, blonde or dark. Yet if I think about it: why should, of all things, a woman's combed-out hair have preserved its color and character? It would have probably looked like a cold spider web. But those are secrets that I do not have to know.

I believe that she was blond. I am thinking of the small, delicate canary feather that was inserted as a bookmark into a notebook. The notebook was lying on her small vanity table. It was so close to the outer edge that it was bound to fall any moment. Opening the page that was marked by the feather, I read:

What I so often fear in deepest sleep

Is that we might throw caution to the winds,

Oh, pleasure sweet, that lures and tortures me;

To die too soon, most terrible of thoughts.

It could come in the midst of conversation

Or outdoors, in the street: we could collapse

If suddenly we met each other....

Is that not strange? I do not mean that people wrote such verses and printed and read them. That too is strange, but I have already talked about it. I mean that to judge by these verses, the woman would have had to be dark. But perhaps that is only a male conjecture, and if another woman heard those verses, she would secretly make fun of them.

I stood at her mirror and peered into it. There, I saw everything that was behind me and everything that surrounded me. But before me there was nothing, and I too was not in there. A human being would have cried out in shock: I am lost.

I am thinking of a small lake high in the mountains over the border of existence, where things have always been the way they now are everywhere. The gentle deer avoided drinking from the lake, and the paths of the hunters did not lead there. The encircling peaks that were supposed to guard it acted as if it were not there and they gazed outward. Even their shadows paled and leaned away from the shores of the lake; for a different darkness flowed from its depth, striking everything dumb. In the valley, people said that the angels were afraid to fly across this lake because their reflections would be lost in it. And that once a star, weary of being only a star, had plunged from heaven to earth and sunk into the lake. That is a fairy tale. Such eyes existed too.

Do you think I am dead? Oh well, that is a stupid question. And if you to whom I am speaking are a friend, then it is also a superfluous question. For it then makes little difference whether we are alive or dead; all that is important is that we speak with one another. But if you are a woman, then I can feel your hair at any time or graze your breasts with astonished fingers, and it will be obvious that I am alive. They used to tell
us that the dead sometimes return, but they always knew that they had died, and they did not try to deceive anyone. On the contrary: they instantly warned us not to touch them, and, with a quiet gesture, they asked us to forgive the intrusion caused by their unseemly coming. They came only because they had missed something or because they were unable to part with a habit. Ah, it reminds me of the old pharmacist who had previously lived in my home. The room where I now had my bed used to be his dining room. He would come every night and go over to his sideboard to pour himself a jigger of his home-made schnapps. He made sure not to disturb me by, say, bumping into the rearranged furniture. But no matter how quiet he was and no matter how considerate, he could not prevent the floorboards from creaking slightly, and so I did notice him all the same. Later on, he gave up coming; apparently, it was no longer necessary.

But as regards myself: If I was dead, why was I alone in the city? Where were the other countless dead who had died with me? Not to mention those who had died at some earlier point? What a teeming! No, I could not be dead. For only a living person could be as lonesome as I was. Earlier, I had had far more reason to ask myself whether I was really alive when I compared myself with others. Or when I read in a book that a healthy man had to live such and such a life style. Often I was disconcerted by the people in the street. They scrutinized me differently from the way they sized up any other passerby.

If it was a man, they would check to see whether they could compete with him. And if it was a woman or a girl, to see whether she was lovable. Or merely to avoid running into the person coming towards them. But when I walked by, it was different. They stopped short as if I had not been there a moment earlier and had stepped out of a cloud right in front
of them. And once I was past, then I had instantly vanished as far as they were concerned, and they believed they had been mistaken and gave it no further thought. It was very unpleasant for me to startle them; that was why I preferred crossing the street, if I could do so in time. But I could not always avoid meeting them. Even when I was with good friends and left them, I would reproach myself for abandoning them — indeed, already reproach myself on the stairs right after the front door locked behind me. They may still be sitting together and thinking: Why, he was just sitting with us. Why did he not leave us anything? It is as if he had not been here. Or vice versa — and this is even more serious — they feel as if they themselves had suddenly died and were already forgotten by me. Nor would it have helped any if I had returned and told them quite heartily that they were wrong and that I was more earnestly trying to see things from their side than they from mine. They would only have gaped at me in astonishment and doubted my sanity.